Aye, There's the Rub
by corporeal-college-girl
Summary: <html><head></head>He was tired. So tired. Nobody even cared. Why was he even here anymore? No pairings. Pure angst. NOT A HAPPY FIC. Warnings for suicide. Spoilers up to season four.</html>


Dean stared up at the ceiling of yet another shitty motel room during yet another sleepless night. Memories of Hell flashed behind his eyes at every blink. The same forty years repeating themselves again and again. He looked over at the other bed where Sam was supposed to be. He was missing. Again. His brother hadn't even waited for an hour before sneaking out when thought Dean was asleep.

The hunter briefly thought of Castiel, but the angels only wanted him to do their dirty work, like torturing Alistair. That douche, Zachariah, had even thrown him into a false life just for the hell of it.

The truth was, no one ever told Dean the truth. Hell, Sam had lied to him in the first conversation they had after Dean's marvelous resurrection. Sam had been lying to him ever since. The angel told Dean that he was special, that he was needed. Yet another lie. He was just another tool of Heaven. Almost as screwed over as the poor bastards they were possessing. Needed. Yeah, right. The only person who had ever needed him was Sammy. Now, Sammy was Sam. Sam didn't need him. Dean needed Sam. Dean had ruined his brother's life at Stanford when he broke in that night to ask for help because Dad was on a hunting trip, and he hadn't come home for a few days. He hadn't known it then, but Dad was trying to leave Dean. It was because John knew that he was weak and wouldn't be able to fight Yellow-Eyes. It hurt, but even without saying a word, Dad was more truthful than anyone had been for years.

Dean was weak. He had promised to always keep Sammy safe. He failed. Sam died anyway. He had even failed the entire world when he broke in Hell and shed blood to break the first seal.

The hunter slid his hand beneath the crappy motel pillow and pulled his knife out from under it. His Dad had given him the knife when he was seven. He had told him to protect Sammy. That was over now. Sammy didn't want protection. In fact, Sam said that Dean was just dragging him down. The knife was purposeless. No. That wasn't quite right. The knife could do one last thing. It could send Dean back to Hell where he belonged.

Dean rose slowly. Moving without haste, he packed all his stuff neatly into a duffel bag. He set the bag on the bed he just vacated and walked into the bathroom. The room only had a shower, but that would work. Dean turned the water on and then walked in fully clothed. He would do it in the shower as a last favour to Sam. This way, his brother wouldn't have to clean up anything besides Dean's body. No blood to mop up or knives to clean, just one corpse to salt and burn.

The broken man let the water, ice cold of course, wash over him. When the pain from his fingers numbed, he sat down. Leaning against the wall, Dean stared at the knife. "I won't drag you down any longer, Sammy." He murmured. He considered telling the angels to go screw themselves, but if any of them came to investigate they might stop him. So, instead, he returned his gaze to the blade, gripped it tightly in numb fingers, and slashed his left wrist. He didn't cut deep enough to hit the tendon, but the arterial spray, even slowed because of the cold, was quite satisfying. Dean transferred the knife to his left hand. Cutting the right wrist was more challenging, and he didn't slice as deep, but he still got a nice flow of blood from the cut. The hunter gazed on passively, watching his life flow down the drain. It was funny, the red of his blood almost made the grimy shower look white. It was sort of hypnotizing. Then, the white wasn't white, it was black. The red was black as well. The world faded away, and he was peaceful.

Dean blinked open his eyes, expecting to see the racks of Hell, to hear the nameless screams for mercy, to feel the bitter cold of Hellfire. He was not anticipating a dirty shower tile. He looked around. It was the same shower that he had just killed himself in. Huh? Why was he still here? A voice interrupted his inner confusion, "Now, now, Dean. You can't be dying on us quite yet." Startled, Dean looked up. He found himself face to face with an angel. Not Castiel, that other dick who had screwed with his head. What's his name? Dean fuzzily matched face with name. Zachariah, that was it. "Heaven still has work for you, Dean Winchester," the angel continued. He vanished with a final smirk and a "we'll be in touch."

Dean stood up slowly. He cleaned the residual blood from the shower. On shaky legs, he moved to the motel bed. He all but fell onto the comforter that was about as comforting as a wood floor. Struggling to a sitting position, the hunter paused a moment before turning his gaze to his forearms. There was not even a scar from the slices he had made. His arms were as whole as ever.

The hunter didn't even bother to change out of his soaking clothes. He just curled up in the centre of another crappy motel bed, on another sleepless night. Then, the Righteous Man wept when even death was denied him.

If Sam noticed the knife in the shower the next morning, he never said a thing.


End file.
